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Poppy sighed as she looked over her potions notes. Professor Kendrick was absolutely tyrannical about getting things exactly right, and she could see why. If you made a small mistake, it could entirely change the potion, from a sleeping draught to a forgetfulness potion, or from one to cheer someone up to inducing hysterical laughter. One of the boys in her year, another Ravenclaw named Bartholomew Zonko, seemed to find the range of what happened with slight changes almost more interesting that the potions that they were supposed to learn. Between that and his tendency for practical jokes... Well, it wasn't a surprise that he had a lot of detentions.
She still needed to wrap her mind around this latest batch of potion recipes. She just knew that they would be on the test, and if she could get them down... well, potions was the class that she struggled the most to understand. More so, it was absolutely vital if she wanted to be a Healing Witch. Someone who treated injuries and hexes... the idea fascinated her.
She just needed to master potions first. Maybe she should try to find a tutor... She closed her eyes, knowing exactly what some of the other girls in her year would suggest. They'd want to ask the handsome Tom Riddle, a year ahead of them and doing rather well in potions... and everything else. Handsome, talented, and without the coarse edges that some of the Slytherins had, it wasn't surprising that a lot of the girls had crushes on him.
But not her. He just seemed... well, she couldn't put it into words, but she couldn't bring herself to trust him. He just... didn't feel quite right to her. Besides, she already had a crush, and it was far more hopeless.
Albus Dumbledore, the Transfigurations instructor was just... dreamy. He had those blue eyes, and such pretty auburn hair... she was jealous of that hair. He looked so good in his robes in velvet blue and red or a deep green with gold flecks dancing over them... She knew that it was hopeless, and that her crush was roughly the size of a dragon, but she couldn't change it.
She had this feeling though, a sense that something wasn't right in the school, something that went far beyond a personal dislike or distrust of particular Slytherin students. But what could she do about it? She was just a fourth year student. All she could do was try to make sure she was ready for whatever happened... and study her Potions notes so that she could pass the class.
Which would be much easier if Riddle and his flock of admirers weren't filling the library with chatter and flirting. She sighed, wishing that she had managed to master the fine art of getting things done and staying focused through the most appalling racket. Then she could study... of course, if it had been Professor Dumbledore... that would be rather distracting as well.
It didn't take long before she came to the conclusion that she'd never get anywhere here. There were too many of them fussing over him, and not enough space for her to be far enough away to not hear them. Frustrated, she gathered her books, rolling up the coil of ink speckled scroll that her notes were on, and made her way to the Ravenclaw tower, hoping that enough of the other fourth year girls were out of the dorm for her to be able to study.
Again, her plan was foiled. The common room was filled with people cheerfully chatting or bemoaning their own classes, and the room that she shared with the other fourth years? There was currently a debate going on about the relative cuteness of a pair of Quidditch players, a wizard television personality, and some muggle music group that sounded vaguely familiar. Much too noisy to get any studying done, and she was getting quite tense and cranky as a result of all of it.
She felt like screaming and throwing things in frustration, but that wouldn't solve anything. Maybe she should just go shut herself somewhere inconveniently out of the way... Somewhere like the third floor girls bathroom. Perfect, she had a plan now.
Potions notes firmly in hand, she made her way back out of the Ravenclaw tower and to the third floor. Something seemed a bit off, there was water over the floor. Why would there be water on the floor? Carefully, she opened the door, getting avery odd feeling, like she was very cold and wanted to run away and curl up in a corner.
Water glistened over the whole floor, covering the tiles. Just beside the double rows of the stalls, there was a dark mass on the floor. For several long moments, her mind refused to acknowledge what that dark shape was. It was a body, one of the younger girls, her dark robes floating on the water, short dark hair semi fanned around her, glasses fallen to the floor, the lenses oddly shattered.
Someone was screaming, loud piercing shrieks fit almost to wake the dead. It took a few more moments before she realized that she was the one screaming, and by that time, people were arriving from all over the place, peering inside, staring, eyes wide with curiosity, shock and fear. She managed to stop screaming, her body shaking, still feeling horribly cold as she stared in the room.
After what felt like a long agonizing time, the dead girl was identified as Myrtle Ibsen, one of the muggle-born witches from Hufflepuff. Nobody seemed to know what had happened, why Myrtle was dead. Or why the floors were covered with water.
Poppy might have been the only one to notice that Tom Riddle looked almost pleased by things. As if something wonderful had happened. It made her feel even colder.
She looked down at a puddle of water, her mind still seeing the image of Myrtle, face down in the water. Some day, she would be a good medical witch, and she would be able to prevent things like this... She would find a way to help figure out what had happened, a way to fight against it ever happening again.
Somehow.
end Poppy Dreams.